


Children of Dionysus -- In The Darkness (part 3)

by meretriciousanddelicious



Series: Children of Dionysus [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: "it's just you and me", "the rules of this game can change", Blushing, Emotional Healing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Forgiveness, I am yours; you are mine, M/M, Masturbation, Mind Palace John Watson, Mutual Masturbation, PTSD Sherlock, Possessiveness, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-pleasuring, Sleep Deprivation, Tenderness, Triggers, Voyeurism, a different value of real, another unsexy sexy striptease, body shame, cheeky simulacrum, compassion - Freeform, scratch marks, who wards the warrior?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 11:53:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meretriciousanddelicious/pseuds/meretriciousanddelicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 3 happens 2 nights later --  even when John is not physically around, he will do his best to take care of his lover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Children of Dionysus -- In The Darkness (part 3)

**Author's Note:**

> Personal head-canon: Sherlock has eidetic memory. Although he has *alluded* to intentionally forgetting information he is not actually capable of doing so. He only has full control over what memory he accesses while awake... mostly.

The dark was coming for him, and Sherlock knew it.

It had been two days since that confusing, terrifying, magnificent night spent with John and he'd slept for perhaps a total of 30 minutes since then -- in two catnaps stolen between moving information and money around.

The dark was stalking him through the corners of his mind. He could hold it off or evade it, as long as he was awake. But he knew this enemy of old. It would wait until he slept to pounce.

His intrigues finished for the moment (and desperate for some safe harbor) he sent one of his homeless network to walk by Watson's new flat. The news the shabby old gentleman brought back was not good -- an unmarked squad car sat across the street, in line of sight to John's bedroom window. There was no way for him to be sure if this gesture was Lestrade's effort to be smart or if someone had paid a dirty cop to spy on his friend.

The new moon was in another two days. Sherlock was certain that John's lovebite would only be a greeny-gold by then, and this would give him enough time to disable the street lamp in the vicinity. Then in the pitch dark he would climb the drainpipe as he had done before and walk the ledge over to the casement. Easier if he could send John a message first, to remove unnecessary impediments...

"Leave your window open to the jungle and you invite in a lion." A meaningless fortune cookie text from a disposable cell phone. But John would know.

That left only two issues: the frustration of waiting, and the encroaching darkness in his mind.

Sherlock did have eidetic memory, true, but while conscious he had complete control over *what* memory he accessed. His unconscious mind had no such mastery. His memories ambushed him in dreams and, while they were lucid, at the very least it meant a vicious battle. That's when he woke up screaming.

At worst it meant the memories won.

That's when he woke up crying.

The past had been stirred up by sensation and muscle memory. What he'd done with John... it had been wonderful but it had still called up that old shame, those old scars. He wondered how far one might have to go to make so many beautiful memories that it would overwhelm the awful ones and cow them into silence.

I knew we couldn't close that door again, John. Now we'll have to go fight what was hiding behind it.

Sherlock sat on the edge of the cheap mattress in his own temporary flat, head in hands, temples pounding. I have to be able to sleep soon. How long had it been since real, actual hours of rest? Three, maybe four days? It would have to be soon. His reserves were running out.

Drugs did no good; the ones that would take him into sleep would pass him through a period of decreased will for an hour or two before unconsciousness. The dark would attack him then. He couldn't even play his violin; in this part of town unwanted noise from another flat usually resulted in fisticuffs and he couldn't afford to attract attention by putting someone else in hospital.

And John wasn't here.

"I wish you were," he whispered in the evening gloom. "I wish you were here."

~Look up then, love.~

Startled, he raised his gaze.

There he stood, just out of reach, complete in every detail from his short-cropped blond hair to his sweater and collared shirt, down to the shoes he polished every day in military habit.

The slight transparency to the image was the only thing that gave Sherlock the lie.

~You're not going mad; well, no madder than your usual. I *am* John. I just happen to be the bit of him that lives in your mind all the time. The one you talk to even when he's not actually here.~

"You've not come out before."

The image's eyes crinkled in a smile. ~The rules have changed. When John finally told you what was in his heart... it freed us both. Unconsciously you've given him -- and me -- the power to do what is needful to take care of you. Now that you're safe here for the moment and you've got the breathing room to let you rest, you need to do so. I'm going to try and make sure that you do.~

"What are you going to do?"

~I'm going to help you drive back the dark.~

Sherlock gave him a shocked look.

~I'm a part of you, love. I'm the John inside you. So in some ways I know all that you do. Someday you *will* need to tell him. He wants to help you and I think he could. I know for sure he won't judge you for it. You don't have to tell *me* because I already know. Which is fortunate, because that means I can help tonight.~

John stepped forward and cupped Sherlock's cheek in his hand. He could feel the tingle of pressure on his skin, leaned into the sensation of that touch.

~Stand up, Sherlock.~ The image backed away to give him room. Perplexed, he obeyed.

"I always forget how short you are, when you're not here," he murmured. He could see right over the top of John's head.

~The people we love always gain stature in our minds,~ he replied wryly. ~You're larger than life to me, so much of the time. It was almost a relief to see you in need... to be able to give you comfort and understanding that you couldn't provide yourself. It made you a bit more human.~

Sherlock stepped forward and enfolded the image in his arms; resting his cheek on the top of John's head as he'd wanted to do sometimes and hadn't dared. The image held him in return.

"You feel quite real."

He heard the smile in his lover's voice. ~I'm a different value of real.~

They stood like that for a moment, just breathing.

~You'll need to take your clothes off,~ said the John-image eventually. ~You know I can't affect anything else in the world here, aside from you.~

"Isn't that enough?" Sherlock asked mildly. John stepped back while he undid his scarf and shrugged out of his jacket to lay them on a nearby chair. He unbuttoned his shirt slowly, smiling to see John watching avidly.

~And you wondered why I always got irritated when you wandered around half-clothed. You were such a distraction.~

"It was difficult for me to realize."

~I'll try to teach you as we go along. Be sure to take plenty of notes.~

"Cheeky simulacrum," Holmes chided as he untied his shoes. He slid them off, stuffed the sock into each one, then pushed them under the bed. Then he straightened up and, eyes holding John's, unfastened his belt.

John's gray gaze never wavered but his cheeks slowly flushed. Button, zipper, then spreading the waistband open. He gulped.

"You can look," Sherlock said in amusement. He slid his trousers down to his calves.

~I don't know if you'll ever understand, just how earth-shaking all that was for me,~ the image said, still watching Sherlock's blue-green eyes. ~Here I am, having been hetero all my life... and then being slowly blindsided by *one* man. Feeling something I'd not felt before. And then doing things I'd never dreamed and they felt *so right*, because it was you."

He let his his gaze slowly drift down.

~Wanting that. Practically crazy for it. Because it is *yours.*~

He took a step closer. Sherlock stepped out of his pants and kicked them aside.

~Sapiosexuality? Turned on by someone's mind? Maybe. I know I never really cared how much brain those girls had. Biological imperative at work, there.~

"Demisexual: sexual attraction caused only by deep emotional connection."

~Maybe. I'm okay if there's not a word for it. It's just you. You and me.~

John laid his hands on Sherlock's chest. Every nerve stirred, enlivened. He traced the contour of lean muscle, then ran his thumbs up and caressed his nipples.

"You still have all your clothes on."

~You're right. Not fair of me, huh?~ Between one heartbeat and the next John was naked, displaying a similar state of arousal.

~It's okay. Someday you'll be more comfortable, being vulnerable with me, letting me be vulnerable with you.~

"I'm already fine with that last bit. I like it." He looked down at John. "I have the oddest urge to protect you sometimes."

~Who wards the warrior?~

"His companion." He took John's face between his long hands, gently, and tipped it up to his. Sherlock could even taste him, could feel the warmth of his lips.

John's hands were caressing his neck when they finally broke apart. ~You're not going to like this next part.~

"Oh?"

~I need you to open the closet door now.~

Sherlock's eyes darkened. "You're right, I don't like it."

~Nonetheless, I'm asking it of you.~ The sweet grey gaze looking up at him held only compassion and love.

He hissed between his teeth, agitated.

~My love... please remember. I'm trying to help you. I just want to help. And I believe this will. Please trust me.~

Sherlock disengaged himself from his lover's hands, then moved to the far side of the room and opened the door, backing a few steps away as he did.

Inside the door was a full-length mirror.

~You don't like looking at yourself naked. Especially not naked and aroused. That's why you were most comfortable in the darkness, that first time. But I need you to look now.~

The John-image walked over to stand beside him, one arm laid loosely around his waist. Sherlock without thinking wound an arm around his shoulders. He looked at them, side by side.

John's eyes were on him in the mirror.

~You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen,~ he said shamelessly. ~You rouse my blood as hard as if I'm about to go into battle. Look at yourself. See yourself as I do.

~So tall, so powerful and angular... such beautiful pale skin. Those magnificent cheekbones, those glorious eyes, the cupid's bow of your lips... The deadly grace in the way you move. The long line of muscle in your thighs and legs. And this.~

John touched him, wrapped a hand around him. Despite himself, he grunted.

~I love this. This gave us both such pleasure. I hope it will give us more again, in the days and years to come. I want to come to know it as well as my own body.~

John sank to his knees and Sherlock let him. He applied both hands, urging him into full arousal. Sherlock met his own eyes in the mirror.

~Stay with me, Sherlock. See how I love you?~

Now his mouth, warm and wet. John's hands moved to his buttocks and held him close. He ran his hand over John's head, could feel the short hair stirring under his fingertips. He groaned.

A moment later John released him from his possessive lips. ~Look, now.~

The tableau would have been memorable, even for a lesser mind. John on his knees, the hard flowing muscles of his back visible in the low light, chest and belly pressed possessively against his legs, his hand resting on Sherlock's thigh, his head on Sherlock's lower abdomen. The focus of his gaze only inches away, Sherlock's erection, perfectly hard and throbbing almost painfully. Sherlock's hand over his hand, the other lovingly cradling his head.

~I am yours. You are mine.~

Sherlock drew in a shuddery breath.

~That's enough. I know you have the picture now. Let's lay you down in bed.~ John released him slowly.

With mingled relief and regret Sherlock shut the mirror away, then led the image over to his broken down mattress. The springs squeaked as he lowered his body onto it. John followed him silently to sit down beside him.

"And what will you do with me now?" breathed Sherlock.

John shook his head slightly. ~Not me, *you.* You're going to pleasure yourself. I'm going to watch.~

"Wouldn't you rather..."

~Absolutely I would. In fact I ache to touch you.~ The image's talented hands were knotted together on his knee, his arousal obviously unflagging. ~But it's more important at this point that together we teach you to give yourself compassion... tenderness. Maybe even forgiveness.~

"What does that have to do with this?"

~Practically everything, love. Somewhere along the line something got stolen from you, from your very soul. The process maybe slow, but I swear in the end we'll take it all back. Now put your hands on yourself.~

Sherlock stared up into the image's eyes, knowing it could read the terror (and the thread of helpless revulsion) in the front of his mind.

~Start slowly,~ John replied. He picked up Sherlock's right hand and laid the palm of it across Sherlock's cheek. ~You liked it when I caressed your face.~

"I did. I do. It feels like you hold my whole being when you do it."

~Touch your face gently. Let yourself feel it.~

Sherlock ran his fingertips across his cheeks slowly, over his lips, down his chin and jawline.

~Yes. Just like I would. Take care with yourself -- you're touching someone I love very much. What else did you like?~

"You stroked my throat..." Already his hands were moving, slowly gaining confidence. Through slitted eyes he saw John's own hand move to his neck unconsciously.

"And my collarbones..."

~And the tops of your shoulders. The muscles there, so powerful. Your strength that night made me feel faint.~

"Yes?"

~You know that. You felt me swoon when you held me.~

"Yes I did." And I thrilled at the power, he thought. To hold you like a newborn rabbit in the palm of a steel-gauntleted hand... to cradle that weakness in my strength and protect it.

~Yes,~ the image nodded. ~Only to you, and because of you, am I ever that weak.~

"And then you touched my chest..." He matched action to words, enervated to see John's hands following on his own flesh. "And then my nipples..." Eyes flickering back and forth from John's gaze to his hands. The image licked his lips and inhaled slowly.

~And then, that delicious abdomen...~

"You ringed your tongue around my navel at one point," Sherlock whispered, his fingers tracing the route lightly.

~Did I?~ asked the image, the flush spilling down his cheeks and starting down his throat. ~I know I wanted to, badly.~

"And then you ran your hands up my thighs..."

~I don't remember getting that far; I seem to recall getting distracted before that...~

"The rules of this game can change," Sherlock cautioned gently. He drew his knees up and spread them, then ran his fingertips in gentle waves down the tight lines, until they hovered in the hollow where his legs joined his body.

~Do it again,~ John breathed, eyes bright. ~Doctor's orders.~

Sherlock repeated the gesture, this time presenting his nails halfway down and leaving ten pale-red tracks on his flesh, quivering at the change in sensation. John gasped.

~I was thinking about that, you know.~

"Yes... the lions..."

~Your marks on me. You'd like it... us scratching each other, in passion.~

"I think so. Not sure why."

~Love and pain, much of the time, go hand in hand.~ There was a flash in Watson's eyes of sadness, gone again far too quickly to remark upon.

~My love,~ John whispered, and let his hand drift down into his own groin. Sherlock imitated him without really thinking about it, and groaned in shock and pleasure.

~Don't think, just for once, Sherlock!~

He struggled for a moment, silently.

~Open your eyes, Sherlock; look at me. I'm here with you. I'm not going to leave you. What you are doing... it's got me very excited. Please don't stop.~

Sherlock could see it, as John's breathing changed. The image's forearm flexed as his hand stroked his shaft at almost leisurely speed but his jaw was clenched and his eyes shining as he watched Sherlock. The blush was halfway down his chest.

~What you do to yourself, you do to me.~

Sherlock rolled his hips up and back down, once. John groaned.

~Christ, just to be on you! You know this is what I'm doing tonight...~

"Hmm?"

~The physical me, out in that flat... watching the moonbeam crawl across the bed and touching myself, wishing it were your hands.~

"Why?"

~Because you opened the door in me, too. You helped me to want this, to want the pleasure between us. Not only the physical release but the *sharing*. In a way I never could have, with anyone else.~

"Why?"

John grinned at his questions. ~Because there is only one Sherlock Holmes.~

"You've missed the corollary on that..."

~Which is?~

"There is only *one* John Watson." He reached his free hand up to touch the image's face. John reached down and cupped his cheek in return.

~Don't stop, love. Don't stop.~

Connected thus, he was liberated. Through fire, through hell, through danger unfathomable, through a thousand brilliant and utterly evil arch-enemies -- what matter any of it, if John was at his side? His own body was no great terror then. How could it be, with John's eyes on him? With that gentle smile he still shone on him, even as the image's breath became ragged.

Even as Sherlock found the key he'd fumbled after, various nights alone, where his blood had boiled mindlessly and no amount of violin or nicotine could put it down. Nights that ended in self-loathing and joyless spasms in the pitch black dark where he could try to disassociate from what he was doing to himself. Now his hands recognized his own flesh and felt no fear. Now his graceful fingers were beginning to evoke the release his body craved.

~Yes, oh yes,~ John panted. ~Yes, Sherlock, for god's sake set us both free!~

The picture flashing again in his eyes -- the two of them in the mirror, possessing each other.

I am yours and you are mine...

With a soft cry of mixed surprise and wonder, Sherlock felt his orgasm begin. John's moans matched him; he forced his eyes open to see John's face, grimacing at the spike of pleasure. Then he shut his eyes as the ecstasy unwound from his core, and the wave of white rolled over his being.

As if in a dream he felt John lay down in the curve of his arm, body pressed down the length of his side. John, yes. My John. Here with me. I needed you. How I love you.

Someday I'll be able to say it. My love.

Eventually he could hear his own breathing again; John was matching it, trying to calm his own heartbeat.

"Well," Holmes whispered after a moment. "That was unexpected."

John snickered. ~Sherlock Holmes, master of understatement. You know you'll have to tell me all about this when you see me again. The physical me. Of course I won't remember it because I wasn't here.~

"Do you think you'll be jealous?" he asked a bit whimsically.

~No -- proud. And pleased. Happy to know that my presence persists inside you, even when I'm not here to remind you of it.~

"It always has."

~I think you can manage to clean off on the sheets just this once, Sherlock. You're needing to do some wash tomorrow anyway.~

Sherlock frowned but complied; knowing the wisdom of not moving too much, of not disturbing the sudden tranquility in his being. "I hate doing wash," he said instead.

~Were that your only suffering, your life would be quite pleasant indeed.~

"You know that this doesn't fix things. You know that this wouldn't make everything better all in one go."

~Of course not, you idiot,~ John said lovingly, stroking phantom fingers through his curls. ~All I wanted to fix was tonight... and I think we've just about managed it. What's going to happen now is that you're going to go to sleep.~

"Where will you be?"

~Right here, watching you.~ John moved back and folded Sherlock's arm between them, to clasp his hand. ~Holding you like this, right where you can see me if you open your eyes. Nothing bad will happen to you while I keep watch.~

Sherlock shut his eyes for a moment. Waited. Opened them. There was John -- his image, at least -- almost glowing golden from the street lamp outside. Slightly transparent. A different value of real.

Sherlock shut his eyes again. Waited. Opened them a slit. John smiled at him, tightened his grip on his hand.

Sherlock shut his eyes once more.

And woke ages later, with a beam of sunlight lancing the cave of his flat.

He met the John-image's eyes in shock. Six hours? *Six whole peaceful dreamless hours?* That hadn't happened in at least a decade! John squeezed his hand gently, leaned over and kissed him with wonderful thoroughness, then began to fade away.

"Wait, don't go!" he breathed.

~Not gone. Never gone. You know this, love. Just back inside, where I belong.~

Holmes lay back in the sheets, scrubbing at his face restlessly with both hands. Chasing a dream. Chasing a ghost.

~Rise up and go forth, Sherlock Holmes. You've got some government property damage to commit -- the lamp-post, remember?~

John, the really real John. Who spent last night alone with memory and desire. Who had only his own hands, without a mind powerful (or deranged) enough to send him the angel to save him. Yes.

In two nights the lovebite would be greeny-gold and the darkness will be my friend as I come back to you, just as I promised. To take you in my arms and tell you about how you protect me, even when you're not here.

"Not to mention the wash!" he answered the fading voice.

And Sherlock Holmes bounded out of bed, feeling surprisingly hopeful... and happy.


End file.
